


Out Getting Ribs

by heartsayshello95



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, F/M, I did my best, Past Rape/Non-con, Rating May Change, Reunions, arya stark's mental state, especially arya and sansa, i know this is a strange pair, just go with it ok, mentions of ramsey, might be ooc sorry i've never read the books, takes place after the season 7 premiere basically, the starks are bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-05 08:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11574546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsayshello95/pseuds/heartsayshello95
Summary: Arya Stark of Winterfell arrives home wounded, but counts the days until she can continue to seek her vengeance on those who have wronged her family. But at home, she finds a disconnect between the girl she was, the woman she has become, and No One.





	1. Chapter 1

A girl collapses outside of Winterfell, her leg bent in an unnatural way. Dark, thick blood has seeped through her brown tunic from a wound in her shoulder and pools in the snow around her. There is a direwolf at her side that growls and snaps at any man who approaches. The wolf paws at her clothes and whines, urging her to get back on her feet as soldiers surround them. A girl hears a man shouting in the distance and a woman closely behind.

 Her wolf stops growling.  A girl’s eyes flicker open only to see boots and a set of paws, white ones that don’t belong to her wolf, circle her. A pair of hands grasp at her shoulders and try to pull her from the snow. Her head lolls against his body.

She opens her eyes one last time to see a man with dark hair slicked back wearing brown furs that remind her of the father she once had.

“Jon?” she manages. Her lips part in an attempt at a smile. Her facial muscles have not known this movement in a long while. 

“Yes,” he says, pulling her closer. “Yes, it’s me.” He turns his head, shouting orders to find the maester just as a girl is pulled into the darkness.

 

 

Arya Stark of Winterfell wakes up in a room she hasn’t been in since she was a young girl, in a castle she hasn’t seen since her family was together and winter was a faraway thought. She feels Nymeria’s warm body against her leg. The wolf stirs, feeling Arya’s hand on her fur. She licks Arya’s hand, as if to say, _you are safe_.

Arya tries to lift herself up. Her muscles ache, and she is only able to move a few inches before collapsing back down.

“You’re awake!” a high-pitched voice comes from her side. Arya turns her head to see a tall woman with a shock of red hair pulled back away from her face.

“Sansa,” Arya says.

“I must get Jon. He’ll want to know you’re awake,” Sansa says.

“No,” Arya says, surprising herself. “Stay here. For a minute.”

Sansa smiles lightly. “I’ve thought you were dead for years. No one had heard from you… Then Brienne told me she’d seen you, but you ran away.” She shakes her head. “I never thought I’d ever see you again.”

“Surprise,” Arya says because she doesn’t know what else to say. Arya hated her when they were growing up. What she wouldn’t give to go back and told on tightly to each one of her siblings and never let them go.

“You’re a proper woman now,” Sansa says, a twinge of amusement in her voice. Arya cringes slightly.

“I suppose so,” she says. “I’ve not thought about it.”

“How’d you get here?” Sansa wonders. “Where have you been?”

“Many places. The streets of King’s Landing, on the Kingsroad, Harrenhal, Braavos, the Riverlands most recently.”

Arya is amused at the thought.

“Braavos?” Sansa asks incredulously. “How’d you get all the way there?”

“With a coin,” Arya says. Her sister is starting to look frustrated.

“Be serious, Arya.”

“I’m dead serious.” She’s missed irritating Sansa.

“I’m getting Jon.” She turns on her heel and walks out. When Sansa goes, Arya realizes how tired she is. Her shoulder aches. She tries to roll it slightly, but has to bite her lip to keep from crying out in pain.

She squeezes her eyes shut, gathering the wherewithal to rise from her bed. But her eyes don’t open again. She falls asleep again with Nymeria’s head rested on her good leg.

 

 

When she wakes for the second time, Jon is there to greet her. Tears almost fill her eyes. Almost. Arya hasn’t cried since she was a child. She has taught herself to replace any sadness with an anger. But this isn’t sadness or anger.

This is happiness.

Relief.

She swallows and blinks back any wetness that may have formed in her eyes.  All the proper words leave her mind as she looks at the brother she was certain she would never see again. Jon may have not shared her last name, but she had always been closest to him, the only sibling who shared her Stark eyes and dark hair.

“Arya,” he says. He blinks at her with those Stark eyes. He looks happy.

“What-? How did you and Sansa-? Where have you been?” Her mouth fumbles with all the questions have been circling in her mind since Hot Pie told her Jon Snow had taken back the North.

“Slow down, Arya,” he says, gently. “It’s okay. You’re home. Winterfell is ours.”

“It’s just good to see you is all,” she mumbles.

“It’s good to see you too. I knew you’d find your way home somehow,” Jon said.

“I’ve still got Needle,” she says. “The sword you gave me. It’s saved my life many times.”

“I see,” he says, simply. Arya quiets down, sensing her brother is trouble. “Arya, how did you get these wounds? Your leg has been broken and the maester said you’d been stabbed clean through the shoulder.”

Arya tightens her lip. “I was ambushed by a couple of soldiers in the wood outside Winterfell. Must’ve been the last of Bolton’s men. Deserters.” She pats Nymeria’s back. “It doesn’t matter. They are dead now.”

“Did you kill them?” he asked.

“Yes.” She swallows. Jon looks saddened by this. The idea of his little sister having killed people.

She opens her mouth to start to tell him everything. About the boy she killed in the stables when she was eleven. The names she gave Jaqen H’ghar in Harrenhal. The list she had formed. The men she had killed with the Hound. The Faceless Men in Braavos. Most recently, the Freys in Riverrun.

But the expression on his face stops her.  

“I’ve been on the run since I was eleven, Jon,” she reminds him. “I’ve learned how to protect myself.

“I know. I know. I just—”

“I thought you took the black,” she interrupts, changing the subject. This is a question.

“I did,” he pauses. “And I still fight for their cause.”

“You’re not wearing black.” She bites back the words, _you’re dressed like father._

“I’m better use here. As the King in the North. Winter has come and war comes with it.”

“I’d forgotten how dramatic you can be,” Arya says, half-heartedly. Her bandaged shoulder aches.

“It’s serious,” he says at her. “If you could have seen the things that I’ve seen you’d feel the same.”

Arya doesn’t say it, but she feels the same way.

“I ride for Dragonstone come first light.”

Arya furrows her brows. “What’s at Dragonstone?”

“Hopefully an ally.”

“I’m coming with you then,” she says matter-of-factly.

“No, you’re not. You’re going to stay here.” At this, anger boils inside of her gut. She lifts herself up. Jon stops her, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Arya, you can barely walk. You must stay here. At least for now.”

“You’ve just gotten your sister back and you’re going to leave me? I can handle myself. I’m not a child anymore.”

"I have no doubt, but there are bigger things at play here, Arya. I’ve received word from Castle Black.”

“I don’t care about Castle Black. I care about my family,” she snaps. 

“I care about my family, too,” he snaps back, just as quickly. “Bran is there. He’s on his way to Winterfell. You should be here to receive him.”

“Bran?” she asks with hope in her voice. “I thought he was dead.”

“He’s been past the wall. But he’s coming home,” Jon says. “There hasn’t been a Stark in Winterfell for too long. Soon there will be three.”

Arya thinks about this.

“Four,” she says. She wants to beg him to stay, but she is too proud.

“I will be back soon. I promise.” He rustles her hair like he used to do when they were children.

She tries to smile and believe his words, but it comes out as grimace.

 

 

 

 

Arya limps outside with Nymeria at her heels and Needle resting on her hip. The cold wind is a welcome kiss on her cheeks after spending so much time in Braavos. Her skin is still tanned from her travels, and she stands out in contrast against the dark castle and clean snow. The Starks were made for winter, she thinks.

She looks down at the courtyard. Men fill the yard sparring with each other, sharping their blades, preparing for war. There’s a buzz of happy voices with Northern accents that share jokes and swap tips as they lunge for each other with steel. There’s other men, too, and woman dressed in heavy furs with wild looks in their eyes that speak with accents she hasn’t heard before.

She sees a tall blonde woman in a full set of armor sparing with a boy much smaller than her with dark hair. He wears only the red padded jacket of a squire though he looks too old to be one. The tips of his ears are red from the biting wind. He’s slow and the woman counters each strike without much thought. He goes for the most obvious strike, Arya notes.

They both look familiar. It takes her only a moment to remember when Brienne of Tarth came across her and the Hound. She had a sword made by the Lannisters. Her hand ghosts over the sword on her hip. She grasps it.

“She’s sworn to protect me,” Sansa says from behind Arya. Arya lets go of Needle. “Or us,” she corrects herself, “now that you’re here.”

“You trust her?” Arya asks, not taking her eye off the woman.

“She helped me get away from Ramsay Bolton. She saved my life. Her and her squire.”

“Squire?” she asks, looking at the dark headed boy. Looking down from here, he almost bears a resemblance to Gendry. Arya pushes the thought away as quickly as it comes. She tries not to think of him anymore. But, despite her best efforts, he’s a ghost that hangs over her head, aching to be avenged. Gendry, the bastard boy who became her family. The reason for three of the six names left on her list.

The Red Woman, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr.

Gendry wanted to join their cause and they sold him like he was nothing. And the Red Woman had taken him away. Probably killed him.

“Arya? Are you even listening to what I was saying?” Sansa’s voice pulls her from her thoughts. Arya doesn’t answer. She doesn’t want to admit she hadn’t been, but she didn’t want to lie to her sister either. Arya bites her lip.

“Fine,” Sansa huffs. She walks away.

Down below, Brienne knocks the sword out of her squire’s hand and knocks him to the ground with a grunt. She shouts for him to get up. He pushes himself up, snow now in his hair and on his cheek, and picks up his sword. He shakes his head and some snows falls from his hair. Arya tilts her head, watching him. Them.

She aches to practice her water dancing, she decides.

 

 

 

She finds herself in the Godswood. She hasn’t seen a weirwood tree in ages. It’s quiet. She’s not a person of religion, but the Godswood reminds her of her father. He spent a lot of his time here, sitting on this same bench. She wishes she could say she felt his presence, but she just felt cold.

She doesn’t have the courage to go down into the crypts yet. Her father and Rickon have been laid to rest. The bodies of Robb and her mother had never been recovered, but there was still a place for them in the crypts, even if their bodies weren’t there. She curses herself for not trying to find their remains when she was at the Twins and bringing them home. Maybe it would’ve been a hopeless cause, but at least she could’ve said she tried.

She stands next to the weirwood and closes her eyes. For some unknown reason, she places a hand on the tree. She feels the air move around her. Even though her eyes are closed, she can see the leaves blowing in the wind, the ripples of the spring next to the tree.

She doesn’t feel peace. She feels nothing.

Even here, even at home, hate still runs through her blood. She can hear it pulsing in her ears. Her time at home is only temporary, she knows. As long as the list exists with names that are not crossed off, her mind cannot rest.

What would her father think of the wolf she has become?

She resolves never to come to the Godswood again. Too many ghosts, she thinks.

She hears loud steps approaching from the west and her eyes snap open. Boots crunch in the snow, and Arya turns on her heel, even though her leg is still weak and it hurts her to do so.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on me,” Arya says, her hand on Needle. “I’ll kill you, crippled leg or not.”

“Sorry, my lady.” It’s Brienne’s squire. “Lady Brienne asked me to find you.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Wh-what?” He looks dumbfounded, his eyebrows titled up.

“I haven’t been a lady since I was eleven years old and my father lost his head at King’s Landing,” she snaps. He stands there with his eyes on the ground.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” he offers quietly.

He looks like a puppy, and Arya had just kicked him. “Just—Just call me Arya,” she says. When he doesn’t say anything, she adds, “What’s your name?”

“Podrick Payne. I mean, Pod is fine. Just Pod.”

“Payne?” Her voice squeaks slightly and she curses herself. Arya had just loosened her grip on Needle only to tighten it again. “House Payne?”

“Yes, Lady Arya.” She tilts her head.

“Just Arya. What’s your relation to Ilyn Payne?” she asks.

“A distant cousin.” He meets her eyes for the first time in their conversation. His eyes are big and brown which makes Arya hate him more.

“I’m going to kill him. Just wondering if I need to kill you too.” She hopes this will scare him away. He thinks a moment.

“I suppose he deserves it, my lady,” he says finally.

Arya scoffs. “Do you not care?”

“I’m just a squire, my lady. No one cares a squire’s last name. I wasn’t high born enough for my name to mean anything to me,” he says. He looks like he regrets saying so much.

Then you’re stupider than you look. Names are everything,” Arya says.

A girl walks away from a boy named Podrick Payne, still limping on her left side. A girl can feel his eyes on her back as she leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

Arya plops down next to her sister at dinner. Her plate clangs against the wooden table. Brienne of Tarth is already across from the girls. Sansa only picks at her food while Arya stuffs her mouth as fast as she can.

“Have you got any manners at all, Arya?” Sansa asks.

“Sorry,” she says, narrowing her eyes, “must have forgotten them living on the road for the past five years. Maybe it was after catching pigeons on the streets of King’s Landings or maybe it was while eating Tywin Lannister’s leftovers in Harrenhal. I don’t quite remember.”

Arya doesn’t mean to say this. The truth. It just tumbles out. She doesn’t know why she’s angry at Sansa. She has no reason to be.

“Arya. Don’t be a child,” Sansa says, only half-heartedly. In another life, Sansa would’ve taken the bait to yell at Arya and they would’ve bickered until one of her brothers or the parents broke it up. But that was a lifetime ago.

She still takes a large bite of her food, but chews more slowly this time with her mouth closed. Sansa rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say anything else. She sips on her wine, and her eyes look far away.

The squire passes by them. He begins to sit next to Brienne, but when his eyes meet Arya’s he stops and starts to back away.

“Pod, where are you going?” Brienne asks.

“Sorry, my lady, I forgot I…” he starts.

“Sit down, Pod.”

“Yes, my lady.” He sits down. Arya doesn’t take her eyes off him. To her surprise he keeps her eye for a few moments before inevitably looking toward the ground. She feels herself smirking, but quickly wipes it off her face.

“Lady Arya,” Brienne starts. “If it’s not too bold of me to ask, where did you disappear to after I found you with the Hound? Did he…?”

“The Hound is dead,” Arya said. She hopes her face remained impartial at her words. She tried to convince herself she hated him and wanted him to die. But that was a lie. She takes a large swig of ale. All three of them look at her intently waiting for her to continue. They are easier to lie to that Jaqen H’ghar and the other Faceless Men. “I spent time in Braavos. I had a friend there.”

“A friend? In Braavos?” Sansa asks.

“Yes. An exiled Westorosi that still held loyalty to the North,” Arya said. Another lie. But Brienne and Sansa showed no signs of distrust in her story. Pod was looking intently at his plate. But Arya could tell he was listening to her every word.

“What made you come back?” Brienne asks. “Surely, you couldn’t have known the Starks had retaken Winterfell.”

“I didn’t. Not until recently. A boy named Hot Pie, we traveled for a while together some time ago, told me Jon had taken back Winterfell.” She goes quiet after that. There it was again. The truth. A weakness that still lived in her. She bites down on her tongue.

“It was a tough decision. Not to come with me,” Brienne said. “But I understand.”

Arya’s face remains stone. Sansa may trust her, but Arya couldn’t. “Wasn’t a hard decision at all actually.” She gets up abruptly. “I have to take a piss.”

“Arya!” Sansa says. She starts to get up after her.

“Let her go, Sansa,” Brienne says.

 

  
Sansa knocks on her sister’s door that night. “Arya, can I come in?”

“If you’re looking for an apology, you came to the wrong place,” Arya says, through the door. But, alas, she opens the door for her sister. “What do you want?”

“Can I come in?” she asks again, patiently. Arya thinks for a moment but steps aside. Sansa sits on her bed and pats the spot next to her for Arya to join.

“I have something for you,” she says. She hands her a bundle of clothes: a brown pair of trousers with a long leather tunic. There was also a long fur line coat, similar to the one Jon wore. “I made the cloak myself. If it’s too long I can hem it for you. I just—”

Arya swallows hard, shrugging the cloak over her shoulders.

“No, it’s perfect. Thank you, Sansa. This is beautiful.”

Sansa smiles. Her Tully eyes light up and the bags under her eyes seem to lesson slightly at her smile. “I didn’t think you’d want a dress,” she says, eyeing the trousers she gave her sister.

Arya almost smiles, but catches herself. “No, I guess not,” she agrees.

“I’m making Bran a cloak as well, for when he arrives,” Sansa notes.

They sit in silence for a minute, Arya running her fingers over the dark fur of her new outfit. It’s a comfortable silence, Arya decides.

“It’s so strange,” she finally says.

When she doesn’t elaborate, Sansa asks, “What’s strange?”

“Having family again. Being in Winterfell. Being a Stark. It’s all so strange,” Arya replies.

“You never stopped being a Stark,” Sansa says, reaching for Arya’s hand.

Arya looks up at her. She can feel the guilt on her face. She spent so much time as Arry, and then as No One, or maybe just Someone Else. She pulls her hand away from her sister. Softly and slowly, like she regrets it as she does it.

“You’re right to trust no one,” Sansa says.

 _It’s exactly No One who I don’t trust_ , Arya thought. But this wouldn’t make no sense to her sister.

“But trust me,” her sister continues. “Trust the Starks. Me. Bran. And Jon.” Sansa doesn’t hesitate in naming Jon as a Stark. _So strange_ , Arya thought. When they were children Sansa was horrible to him. She always made a point to call him her half-brother. She always spat out his name like it was venom in her mouth, something she had probably learned from their mother.

“What happened to you?” Arya asks. “You’re different now.”

“In a good way, I hope,” Sansa says. Arya doesn’t hesitate to nod. When they were children, Sansa and Arya could never get through even a five-minute conversation without bickering with each other. “I grew up, Arya. Just in a different way than you. You may have learned how to fight physically, but I learned something else. I learned how to play the game. Now that you’re back, you must learn to as well.”

“I’m not going to be a lady if that’s what you mean.”

“Arya, you’re a lady whether you like it or not,” Sansa says, annoyance on her voice. “But that doesn’t have to mean what it used too. Jon has called for all Northern boys and girls to train. Brienne is a highborn lady. She may not be a knight, but she’s the best fighter I’ve ever seen. None of us have to sit around while men tell us what to do and when to do it.” She pauses before her next sentence, almost seeming to gather courage before her next statement. “And I will die before any lady or lord of this house is forced to marry against their will again in the name of an alliance.”

Arya doesn’t know what to say to this. Sansa’s eyes have hardened, and Arya sees something that she’s never seen in her sister before. She sees a warrior.

“Who hurt you, Sansa? I will kill them,” she promises. “Give me a name.”

“He’s already dead, Arya.” She looks down and smooths her dress. “I thought it would give me peace. That it would comfort me, but it didn’t change anything. His hands still ghost over my body every day. I still feel his hot breath in my ear telling me how he fantasized of the day I gave him an heir and he could finally kill me. I still remember the things I did to make sure that day would never come.”

Sansa’s eyes are still hard. There are no tears.

Arya throws her arms around her sister. She feels a tear in her shoulder and hot blood from her still healing wound at the sudden movement, but she doesn’t care. Sansa doesn’t hug her back, but Arya feels her body soften slightly. Her breathing becomes uneven and she starts to shake, but Sansa still doesn’t cry. She wraps one arm weakly around Arya.

“Just say the word,” Arya says. “And I will kill whoever has wronged you.”

 

 

 

 

Sansa falls asleep in Arya’s bed, above the furs with her day dress still on. Arya doesn’t mind though. Sansa has looked exhausted since Arya came to Winterfell and looked like she hadn’t gotten a good night’s rest in months, perhaps years. Arya slips under the furs and curls up in whatever space her sister does not take up and falls asleep easily.

Arya wakes up at first light and goes downstairs for breakfast, leaving her sister to sleep some more. There aren’t many people in the dining hall so early in the morning. She sits down and enjoys her breakfast alone until Brienne of Tarth and her squire enter. They sit at Arya’s table as though they’d been invited and Brienne greets her.

“Good morning, Lady Arya,” Brienne says.

Arya just grunts and tears off some more bread.

“Do you know where your sister is?” she asks. “She wasn’t in her chamber this morning.”

“She slept in my room last night. Fell asleep while we were talking,” Arya says. With a mouthful of bread, she asks, “You’re a lady, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“But you know how to fight,” Arya says, thinking about what Sansa had said earlier. It’s not a question. She remembers when they met all those years ago in the Vale. Brienne had taken down the Hound. True, he was already wounded and sick, but taking down the Hound was no small feat. “Can I train with you?” She almost squeaks this out, slightly embarrassed by her behavior the night before, but not embarrassed enough to apologize.

“Once you’re healed up, I see no reason why not.” Brienne smiles. It is a small victory for her. “A sword like yours requires a certain style of fighting, what do they call it?”

“The Water Dance,” she answers.

“Aye, but you may not always have that sword. In that case, you should learn the Westorosi way.” Arya nods. “I’m training Pod as well. You can practice with him once that shoulder of yours is healed. And your leg,” Brienne says.

At his name, Pod looks up, though he’d been listening the whole time. He smiles at Arya. A peace offering after their encounter in the Godswood. It’s a goofy smile that seems to spread over his entire face. His dark eyebrows knit together and no one’s looked at her like that before.

Arya blinks a few times, surprised, and tries her best to remain stone faced.

 

 

 

 

She watches intently as Brienne trains Pod, trying to pick up the Westorosi way of sword fighting. Mostly, she just watches Brienne beat him up for an hour. He’s not very good at fighting and Arya wonders how he’s managed to survive this long. Brienne told her they’d been on the road together since Joffery died.  He manages to get a few strikes in, but it is always at a cost to his footwork or positioning.

Once he looks over at her, watching from a distance. His cheeks are a peculiar shade of red, but Arya thinks it must be because of the cold wind. Brienne hits him in the back with the blunt end of her sword, and he grunts.

Arya watches the others in the courtyard spare as well. There are just as many women as men. Maybe even more. Her sister told her how many good men were lost in the Battle of the Bastards. The younger ones practice with bows and arrows and spears, hitting small targets from a distance. Every time a Northerner hits their mark, she feels something swell up in her insides. Pride, maybe.

She remembers all the times she skipped her lessons with Septa Mordane to watch her brothers play at war in the courtyard and they would let her join as long as mother and father weren’t around. The only one to object slightly was Bran. Robb used to tease him it was only because Bran was jealous that Arya was better at using a bow and arrow than he was. If Sansa saw her outside fighting with her brothers, she would run and tell their mother how Arya wasn’t acting ladylike. Their mom would sigh and lead Arya back inside, giving her a halfhearted speech, but she knew telling Arya not to fight was as useless as telling Bran not to climb.

There’s a wildling with wild red hair and an unkempt beard that stares at Brienne and Brienne is trying really hard to ignore him. Pod says something to her, looking in the wildlings direction, but Arya is too far away to hear. Brienne hits him in the stomach. Arya smirks.

Brienne looks up at the walkway above the courtyard, spotting Sansa. She put her training sword away, nodding at Podrick and leaves to catch up with Sansa.

He puts his sword away as well and walks off. Arya might have kept watching the Northern boys and girls train, or gone to catch up with Sansa, but Pod glancea back at her before he walks away, looking at the snow on his boots.

Arya hops down from the fence she was sat on. Her leg pains slightly as she does this, but she pushes it away and follows him.

“Hey,” she calls after him. He stops and turns on his heel.

“My lady?”

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Brienne told me to make myself useful elsewhere, My Lady.”

“Can I come with you?” she asks. Podrick looks confused and she’s quick to add on, “I’m bored is all.” What’s made her so bold, she doesn’t know. But she has grown restless from not being able to train, the least she can do is stretch out her legs.

Pod wants to ask why, but doesn’t forget his sense of propriety. It’s not his place to question a lady of Winterfell. “I’m headed outside Winterfell. I’m not sure your sister…”

“My sister is not in charge of me,” Arya states.

“Th-That’s not what I meant… I meant she’s in charge of me. She’d be mad if she found out I took you outside the walls…”

“I can go with or without you,” Arya says. She turns on her heel and begins walking away from the courtyard, toward the main gate. A few seconds later, she hears Pod’s footsteps in the snow running to catch up with her. Arya smirks.

“Alright, alright. I was heading out to the winter town,” he says.

 “The winter town?”

Pod nods.

When Arya was a girl, winter town was all but deserted. In the summer, smallfolk were spread far and wide across the north. Her father told her, as winter drew nearer, so did the smallfolk. All the houses filled, and the town doubled in size, becoming a hub of its own.

“Are you sure you’re okay to walk? I mean… With your leg and all.”

“Yes,” she says. “It feels fine.”

A lie. It did hurt. But if Arya spent any more time in her chamber, she might go mad.

They walked mostly in silence. Arya glanced at Pod every few seconds, who she swore was trying really hard not to look at her. The tips of his ears were red from the cold, and he fidgeted with his red tunic every once and a while.

“Where are you from?” she asks as they cross through the gate.

“My Lady?” he asks, looking up from the ground.

“You’re not from the north. You’ve not got the look.” Northeners looked hardened and angry most of the time, even during the summers. They were all fierce angles and harsh lines. Even Arya, all elbows and ribs. Her years in Braavos could tan her skin, life on the road could give her muscles definition, growing older could give her a fuller figure, but nothing could take the north out of her. She still had a slight frame and sharp bones. Horse faced like her father, people used to tell her. Pod seemed softer somehow. He was not much taller than her with wide shoulders and understated muscle, not from fighting wars or killing men, but from carrying saddle bags and other’s armor. His dark hair was cropped short around his ears. If she was sharp angles and harsh lines, he was made of quiet strokes and smoothed edges. “Or the accent,” she quickly adds.

“The Westerlands. I served the higher branches of my house until I was given to Tyrion Lannister.”

“Given?”

“I’m a squire. I serve who I’m told, My Lady.”

“Don’t you hate having people tell you what to do all the time? I do.”

He smiles. But it’s a sad smile, Arya thinks. “I’m quite used to it, My Lady. I’d like to think I’m good at it. Doing what I’m told.”

Arya hums.

The buzz of idle chatter echoes through the winter town as they enter. Arya hears people singing while they work and small children laughing while as they kick snow at each other. No one is fighting with blunt swords here, biding their time before the next battle. The only ringing of metal is a blacksmith hammering at his anvil.

Arya frowns. “They seem happy.” She turns to Podrick. “What have they got to be happy about? Everything’s shit. There’s a war to the south and a war to the north.”

Pod thinks for a second. “Lords and ladies think of it that way I suppose. But everybody else is much simpler. There are Starks in Winterfell again. The North has hope. They have faith in your brother and sister. They have faith in you.”

Arya knows he is trying to make her feel better, but his words do the opposite. She couldn’t help these people. With all her skills and all her training, she had failed to protect her own family. She was too young, never in the right place at the right time, or acting as somebody she wasn’t.

“They shouldn’t,” she replies blankly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg can we just talk about 6x04 where this crack ship actually met each other and (kinda) interacted??? and the complete admiration pod looked like he had watching her fight???? bye i'm dead.


End file.
